Defiance
by BlueInked
Summary: When you're an unnamed drone among an army of identical cannon fodder, what's holding your allegiance there?
1. Chapter 1

A/N Ok. Here goes, first fic. I'm kinda wondering about the Vehicons - They're not mindless, and surely at some point one of them must have questioned their allegiance. At present, this is a oneshot, but I'm tempted to continue it. There's so much other stuff I have to type up and upload, though. Cookies to anyone who gets his wierd name reference

January '12: Ahahaha. Yeah, not a oneshot any more. Some details needed to change in order to fit in with the story that developed. It probably still doesn't quite fit. Anyway. This is set before Flying Mind, except in Armada Bulkhead managed to get off the ship somehow without bringing it down. So the Insecticons have only just arrived on the Nemesis, Airachnid's on ice, believed killed. Starscream is rogue. Probably should have given this more thought.

* * *

I almost trip over the disconnected arm of one of my former comrades. The blast that tore it off was actually our leader's. A fusion cannon isn't choosy about where it goes once it's been fired, and poor little D-who-knows-what was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I don't know what the actual statistics are regarding drones being killed by friendly fire. Knowledge, bestowed upon humble D-TE9-14159? Besides 'here are some Autobots, go get destroyed by them' or 'here is some energon, go mine it'? Forget it. I'm just a forgettable drone in an army of forgettable drones. We're cannon fodder – built identically, so that replacing parts is never a problem. Not that parts get replaced very often. My left pede has been numb for three months. One bad landing, that's all it took. I hide the limp from people, because we all know what happens to Eradicons who need repaired. It involves a scrap pile and… no, just a scrap pile. Because that's what you get for having a medic that dislikes jets. It's only a matter of time before I end up there. The internals are rusting, and soon it will be noticed. Goodbye, D-14159.

I'm almost looking forward to it. What's the point of life? I won't be forgotten, but only because I was never known in the first place. I've thought about this, and come to a conclusion. The only way to survive on this rock is to be an Autobot. That's right, the severely outnumbered, outclassed, apparently useless Autobots. They've permanently lost – count him – one soldier. Since they came to Earth. ONE. Counting only higher ranks, we've lost Starscream (Thankfully), Breakdown (He was all right, really…), Airachnid (Freaky) and Skyquake (Apparently. Never saw him). And that's not counting the endless drones. I highly doubt that the 'bots are the pathetic, cowardly, dishonourable, weak little femmes we've been told about. Especially since in the next breath we're told that they're incredibly vicious, cruel sociopaths.

Anyway, back to the search. Energon mine. Two Autobots came in, grabbed some cubes and ran out. They actually didn't even fire on us. No, that would be our dear officers, with their pinpoint aim. They'll be long gone by now, but we're being ordered to search the horribly claustrophobic tunnels. Just in case.

I hate my life.

I step over the torso of my armless comrade. Thankfully, he's already dead. At the end of the corridor I have to duck under a stalactite. There's a small cavern to my left, and I give it a cursory glance.

I freeze. Slumped against the opposite wall is an Autobot. He's badly hurt, with glowing energon splashed over his yellow chest. A dark blue femme is trying to move him into a better position. She hears my slight stumble as I drag my numb pede alongside my good one. Instantly, she twists around. One of her hands clicks into a blaster, but it looks dented. Her other hand doesn't even get that far. She curses almost silently. The yellow scout behind her buzzes weakly.

The urge to shoot is sudden and overwhelming, the protocols giving no room to argue. But my arm doesn't move. I stay completely, utterly still, and I suddenly wonder _why_ I should shoot them.

"You!" The overseer calling me from the end of the tunnel doesn't know my name. Surprise. My wings twitch, but my visor doesn't leave the Autobots. The urge to kill them subsides as I try to think of a reason why they should die. Because of my undying loyalty to the cause that will someday kill me without a second thought?

"D-14159." I mutter to myself, too low for him to hear. Just to prove to myself that I have a name. The femme settles into a combat stance between me and the yellow mech. She looks so determined to protect him. Any self-respecting 'con would have cut and run at this point. And his wide optics, dimming now, have this weird expression in them. I don't think I've ever seen it before. It's like… He trusts her. Even though he's dying, he thinks she's going to get him out. "Found anything?"

I see the despair flicker through both sets of blue optics. Blue is a nice colour, even though every instinct screams at me to shoot it. I don't understand why 'cons have red optics. Red is fire. Pain. Death. Blue is energon, and therefore, life. My visor doesn't move, but I activate my vocaliser.

"No, sir." The femme's optics snap from narrowed slits to almost as wide as the mech's round ones. Just as quickly, they revert to 'suspicious'.

I turn and walk on, doing my best to hide my limp. The tunnel only extends a few feet around the corner. I glance around and turn back. I see the Autobots only in my peripheral vision, and ignore them entirely.

"You! Are you limping?" My wonderful faction. Always keen to fixate on the pain of others.

"No, sir." I walk towards him, careful not to limp but glad to be getting out of the tight space. The weeks here mean I'm less claustrophobic than usual, but I still want out. "This corridor is clear, sir. Are there any more to search?"

"That's all of 'em. Stinkin' Autobots are already gone. You sure you don't need that pede looked at? Decepticons must be in top condition, you know." He laughs cruelly.

Thankfully, I don't have the facial capacity for emotions. "I'm fine, sir. Permission to return to the Nemesis?" Generally, you have to wait until you're transferred. I don't know why I even asked. To my surprise, he gives an assent.

"Granted. Maybe you should go see Knockout." He laughs again, then motions me away.

As I don't limp my way to the exit, I hear the vague whoosh of a groundbridge portal. Shouts start, but the whoosh cuts off. Of course, I join the stampede. Surprise, surprise, the Autobots are gone!

The overseer glares at the crowd.

"An Eradicon told me it was clear!" His visor sweeps over all of us. I join them in muttering in indignation, enraged that one of us could do such a thing. Of course, we all look identical. He has no idea that I'm still here. In fact, I just asked to leave, so he probably thinks I'm gone. A deserter. There are high points to being identical and nameless. Nameless to them, anyway.

Maybe I should have gone. I might have been hunted down, but I might not have. It would be a better fate either way than being scrapped because of a stupid pede.

But no, I'm staying. For now, anyway. I don't have anywhere to go, anything to do. I'm a Decepticon. I have always been one, and probably always will be. My loyalty is to our glorious leader, who will lead us to victory with his fusion cannon and his accuracy, throwing us into the meat grinder as he sees fit.

Is it really a surprise that defiance feels good?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Okay. Changed the title slightly. Here's chapter two. I have no idea how long this will be as I hadn't originally planned to continue it, so I'm still planning what's going to actually happen. Next update will be a while, because I'm going away for three weeks. During this time my only internet access will be a slightly dodgy phone. Which will also be all that I have to write on. Anyway, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I thought I'd better post it before I leave. I changed the first chapter slightly too. Hopefully it all works. Reviews make me seriously happy. Please point out any mistakes, no matter how small.

Oh yes, in my head Eradicons are jets and Vehicons are cars, just to differentiate them.

* * *

I can no longer fully hide the limp, so I have to alter my daily routine to avoid the higher ranks. I stick to the darker corridors of the Nemesis – that's right; I got a transfer a week ago, along with all the other Eradicons. The Vehicons and mining drones stayed behind. Their ground-based alt modes are better suited to the tunnels anyway, while we fliers get to stay in a more natural environment. I think every flier in the history of Cybertron has hated being underground.

We're all under slight suspicion because of the anonymous betrayal of two weeks ago. They're actually bothering to see who does what more often. D-14159 is now branded on one of my wings. Specific squads of us are now ordered to do certain tasks, instead of the you-there-do-this system that's been in place since Megatron's return. Believe it or not, when it was just Screamer and Soundwave the Nemesis was a lot more organised. We had a training programme and the injured were even repaired. Drones made up most of the command structure, bowing occasionally to 'Lord' Starscream to keep him happy. Soundwave silently oversaw everything. It was bearable.

These days, repair and training are a lottery I'd rather not play. The firing range can be dangerous, depending on who is letting off steam. If you go in at the wrong time you can be used as a target. The medbay's worse, which is why I'm keeping this pede until it falls off and they scrap me. The downside of Knockout's choice of alt mode being constantly questioned is that he has one _serious_ dislike of jets. And we're the ones he takes it out on. If he's in a bad mood, he can and will dissect you for the fun of it. I think that's how he learned his skills in the first place. And now that Breakdown's gone he's in a bad mood a lot. It's a lot harder to sneak out for street races when there's no one to cover for you. There used to be a few drones who did minor fixes, but they're mostly dead.

The rest of the drone command structure has been basically crushed by the weight of indifference and the steamrolling tendencies of our leader. The remnants maintain control, just about, but it's nowhere near how it used to be. The fact that Soundwave is constantly decoding the Iacon Database doesn't help. Most of the rank and file barely notice; Megatron inspires them. And they aren't limping.

I walk in the middle of the group as we near the groundbridge. The others avoid looking at me for the most part, and when they do make visor contact it's with contempt. We're supposed to scout out a potential energon deposit – it's a shallow cave in a rather desolate area of arid land. Two Eradicons for an aerial survey, two miners for mineral samples and two Vehicons for strength in numbers. Sorry, ground support. Plus one overseer to make sure we don't all get lost or anything.

The overseer is waiting for us at the groundbridge. He looks exactly like a normal Vehicon, in theory to prevent him being targeted by the enemy. The brand on his shoulder armour identifies him as O-93. Aside from that, he's set apart by slightly more powerful blasters and an oversized ego.

He takes his place behind the rest of us, barking out what passes for a briefing in a voice that's strangely familiar. When I finally figure out where I've heard it before, I panic silently. It's the same overseer from the mine – the one I lied to about the tunnel being empty. He didn't recognise me in a large group, though. And let's be rational, all Eradicons are identical. Only our voices differ. If I just stay silent and as unremarkable as possible, he won't notice me. He can't notice me.

The groundbridge activates and we walk through. I can't help limping, but I'm in the middle of the group. 93 is at the back, so that if there's anything dangerous on the other side of the portal we'll hit it first. And there are a few drones between us.

I know I said I didn't care about dying, but actual, physical, two-steps-behind danger does wonders for perspective. I've been alive for what, three and a half years? Earth years, too. On Cybertron that's apparently insignificant. I would really, really like to continue. Part of my processer is at that weird stage of panic where just about anything seems viable. The moment the washed out sky appears, I consider jumping into the air and gunning my engines. Thankfully, that part isn't giving the orders.

I walk forward lopsidedly, getting enough room to take off for the aerial survey. I just need to survive for an hour and it'll be fine. 93 won't notice me. The other Eradicon follows. The rest of the drones head for the dark mouth of the cave in the low cliff ahead, tuning sensors and scanning the horizon with red visors.

I push upwards and transform. It takes a lot of practice to be able to take off like this. To start with you're just thrown off the edge of the Nemesis in the hope that instinctive programming will take over. Most times, it does. The rest of the time… Well, if they can't master pulling out of a stall then there's really no point keeping them, right?

We ascend quickly. Our alt modes may be mass produced and rather fragile, but they work. And there's something about flight, about working in three dimensions, slicing through the air. Once you've flown, anything but miles of open air will seem suffocating. The huge empty space of desert and sky calms me.

We start scanning, making low passes over the cliff and surrounding plain. The energon deposit doesn't seem all that large, but it's mostly close to the surface. They'll probably mine it.

The scan is over far too fast, and the other Eradicon begins to descend. Back to panic, the prospect of death, dirt clogging up joints, planar movement. Oh, joy.

"Come on. They're finished too." For a moment, I almost give in to the crazy urge to bolt for the horizon. I manage to calm down, gliding beside him. 93 is just another overseer. He doesn't see us as individuals, probably couldn't remember me if I confessed.

We transform in mid-air and I land on my good pede, the momentum making me slide forwards. We walk into the shallow cave, where the other drones are finishing up. I keep pace with the other Eradicon as we leave the sunlight. We're close enough to the entrance that the claustrophobia isn't that bad.

Thankfully, the other Eradicon seems happy enough to talk while I stay silent.

"Aerial survey completed, sir."

"Right." 93's voice makes my wings twitch. I try not to look as though I'm about to run for the exit. Having a completely immobile faceplate comes in handy sometimes.

"Groundbridge is due in five. Get into position." He grumbles something unintelligible as he turns back to the miners. We walk back out. Relief is flooding my systems. I'm alive. He didn't notice me. I have another day to dread my future. Just wonderful.

"You!" No, please. He can't be talking to me. But what if he is?

No no no no no. At this precise moment, the height of my tactical reasoning consists of 'run'. I force my wings to stay still. Please don't let him be talking to me. Please, universe. I'm begging you here.

"Are you limping?" He pauses. I can almost hear him remembering. And out of all the times for my chassis to stop responding, it chooses now. "YOU!" His shout is almost a scream, full of rage. No chance he's forgotten. I'm dead. And yet somehow, speaking takes priority over moving.

"Scrap."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N I am not dead! I'm just busy. Can't wait till my brother doesn't need this laptop anymore. Anyway, chapter 3. Sorry it's short, it went through a rewrite and a half on the way here, and I'm still not entirely happy with it. I promise to make the next update quicker. Kick me over the internet if I'm taking too long. This chapter doesn't have a soundtrack because the others didn't and I wrote it to incredibly unfitting happy music. Imagine Dragons, people. And before I forget, I don't own anything except the writing. I didn't for the first two chapters, and I won't for the duration of the fic.

~Bumblebee-speak shall appear like this when it's from the point of view of someone who understands him. Otherwise, bleeps.~

* * *

Arcee clicked her hands into blasters as she stepped out of the groundbridge, ignoring the tingling that rippled across her plating from the transport. She was used to the sensation of struts vibrating, but the slight audial interference was new. Behind her, the portal closed after Bumblebee. He buzzed something about a game.

"We'll be done in five cycles, tops. Raf paused it anyway." The interference was gone. Good.

~But I was winning…~

"Don't you normally win?"

~Not recently.~ The younger scout actually sounded happy about it. ~So, what could have caused the energon spike?~

"Maybe a natural rock fall uncovered some. Or something. I'll take point." Bee bleeped an assent as they moved towards the cave entrance, set in a shallow cliff. Their steps raised small puffs of dust. Arcee looked down and noticed the other prints.

"We're not the first-"

She was already dropping into a deeper stance as shadows started pouring out of the cave. Another portal opened behind them and the first drone shrieked over their heads and into it. Three cars followed it, spitting out shots that went wide. Arcee raised her blasters. _Focus_. Bumblebee was already firing at the top of the entrance, trying to take out the source of the threats.

Unbidden, the image of the drone popped into her mind. Letting them go, for no conceivable reason. Challenging the assumption that every Decepticon on the planet wanted to kill them.

She blinked. The cars were already past. Her indecision had cost precious seconds. She snarled; one stupid drone was not about to make her spare the whole army. Two miners were lagging behind, their excavation lasers lancing the air almost at random as they tried and failed to run and shoot simultaneously. She primed her blasters and fired.

The sudden blast of noise made her flinch, jerking her shots off target. The pulse of heat combined with recoil had her reverting her arms to their normal mode. They were half transformed before she realised and forced them back into their previous shape. The miners disappeared with only a few more of her shots, plus Bee's now that he realised there wouldn't be any more coming out of the cave. None hit. The younger scout turned to her with a questioning glance.

"Scrap." She didn't feel like explaining further. He probably already knew, anyway.

~'Cee...~

She ignored him. "I'll check the cave. You stay out here, contact base, make sure nothing comes in." He gave a reluctant bleep.

She walked into the cave, blasters raised. Bumblebee hoped that if she found anything she'd actually use them this time.

* * *

I don't know what happened. One minute I was flying blind, not even sure if I was pointed at the cave entrance. I wasn't, because there was a sudden tearing sensation intensifying along my entire left side. I couldn't see the shots but I could hear them and feel the impacts. I transformed and scrambled backwards, ending up in a sitting position against the rough wall. But they're suddenly not here. Why did they leave? Why didn't O-93 finish me off? Maybe he's just being cruel and letting me die slowly, but he didn't seem that… smart. Half my head burns from where the shot that blinded me glanced off, and moving doesn't seem like a good idea. I can't even tell where I'm damaged beacuse the pain is all kind of blending together.

A voice echoes through the tunnel. "Looks like they were scouting." Okay, I'm dead if she's here. That voice has been gone for three months. "Got scorch marks. Yours?" Wait, 451 never spoke like that – Sharp, cold. Muffled bleeping answers her. It sounds familiar. Her steps get louder as she approaches. Maybe if I stay still enough they'll go away and let me die in peace. I don't even wonder why they're here; logic and energon loss don't go together.

"Sure? There's a – Bee, I think you hit a drone." She's standing right in front of me. More bleeping. I recognise it. The yellow Autobot, bleeping softly as the blue femme tried to protect him. So the voice is her? "Well, it's lying here. And I didn't shoot it. In fact… Close range scorches. The others must have turned on it for some reason." My vocaliser lets out a squawk of static. She figured that out quickly. I hear her drop and aim. Oh, great. I want to ask her to just shoot me and get it over with, but the vocaliser now refuses to make any noise at all. There's a silence. Why isn't she shooting? "Can you hear me?" She's speaking quietly, like she doesn't want the other one to hear.

"Yes." There we go. Although I'm not sure how long it will work for. Another pause. I hear a questioning beep in the distance. He must be outside.

"I'm fine! Your wing is branded. Why?" She noticed the brand? Observant. I don't really see any reason not to answer. Her blasters charge again as I shift my weight and turn my head towards where her voice is coming from.

"Name. Why?" I'm not sure if I can form long sentences in my current state.

"Are you the same one?" I wasn't expecting that. It takes a while to formulate a response, and even then it probably doesn't make much sense.

"Caves. Yellow. Injured."

There's a short silence. I wonder if I've somehow managed to die. I doubt it; I'd expected death to at least take the pain away. If it hasn't, I'm disappointed.

"Right." I can't identify the emotions in her voice. I wish I could see. You get pretty good at deciphering body language when everyone you talk to lacks a face. She raises her voice.

"Bee, call base."

I think it's the shock that finally pushes me over the edge and into unconsciousness.

* * *

A/N Yes, another one. Question time, because I really want to know this stuff. Did Arcee seem OOC at all? She doesn't like me. Am I overusing words? Is using both first and third-person viewpoints okay?

Also. Possible Spoiler Alert:

I'm wondering whether or not I should end up giving D-14159 a face. He doesn't have one under the mask currently because I can't see the 'Cons bothering to build their nameless drones with faces. On one hand, it would be really interesting to write (And hopefully read). On the other, it seems like a very... typical thing to do. He's survived three and a half years without one, why would he need one now? It's easier to write emotions when the character has a face, but I don't want to just take the easy way out and avoid having a better, more believable character. (Believable within the giant-alien-robots-with-emotions context, that is.) And I can't think of a brilliant way to introduce it. Thoughts please?


	4. Chapter 4

A/N TAKE THAT, REAL LIFE! I finished the chapter. I made a decision about the question of faces. I got my brother addicted to Prime. The hiatus is over. I love it. School starts tomorrow. I can't decide whether life is good or bad, but I'm going with good. It's a fuzzier feeling. I drew art because I'm paranoid about copyrighted stuff, and it didn't come out altogether well, but hey. Constructive criticism is welcomed (on the fic, not the art), and by 'welcomed' I mean 'loved'.

* * *

This time, the pain is gone. Okay then. This is much closer to what I thought death would be like. Except… I wasn't expecting the soft beeping in the background, or the clicks and whirrs as someone moves close by. Or, now that I think about it, the lingering ache and itchy tightness of repairs.

I activate my optic band. The haze of unfocused surroundings is completely alien. Not because I don't recognise it – I can't even see properly yet – But because it's… different. It's all blue. A deeper blue than I've ever seen before. When I manage to focus I expect it to fade back to normal, but it doesn't. There's a metal ceiling far above me, with things (lights?) hanging down. There's an overhang much closer. So I'm in an alcove. I look down, or what passes for it when I'm lying on my back, and open space spreads out in front of me – not much, but enough to avoid serious claustrophobia. Platforms and too-small metal stairs limit my view of it, some of them bolted to a central pillar. Behind it, the far metal wall cuts off and rock stretches up to the higher ceiling. I'm underground. Great.

When I turn my head, surprised that I can do so painlessly, the source of the noise comes into view and I have to force down fear. The figure seems _huge,_ blue and purplish brown. He's probably only a head taller than me, but from a lying down perspective he just looms. He stands just outside the alcove that's either a medbay or a cell, his hands spread out and moving over a console. Other equipment and things that look smarter than me line the walls around me. When I crane my head backwards, they're there too. I see what looks like a decontamination chamber on the other side. I try to sit up but restraints hold me back. Even my armour looks different, more indigo than the red-hued purple it was before.

The figure turns as I look back at him. I feel even smaller. A purple forehead crest and medic markings create the weirdest colour scheme I've ever seen. It's only when his face appears blue that I realise his colours might actually be different.

"Well?" he demands. I wonder what I'm supposed to say. 'Please don't kill me' is definitely an option.

"Is… Why is everything blue?" My priorities might possibly be a little scrambled. At least my voice is the same, although it's slightly garbled. My faceplate is still damaged, obstructing my vocaliser, but at least it doesn't hurt. Why doesn't it hurt? Did the side renowned for torture just _anaesthetise_ me?

"It's not." What? Yes, it is. I'm seeing it. But telling that to the medic doesn't seem like a good idea, so I settle for a confused glance. Or what counts as a confused glance without facial expression.

He pauses, closing his eyes and sighing in frustration. Then he continues in a voice usually reserved for the young and the stupid. "Your optic band had a bias towards red and yellow. I replaced it with a properly balanced one. You're still adjusting. It should clear up within a few hours."

I have little to no idea what he just said. He turns back to the console; my presence is definitely unsettling to him. Surprise.

"Name."

"What?"

"Name. I need to know what you're called. I don't really have access to _Decepticon_ records." The switch from professional to sarcastic is abrupt. I get the feeling that having me here wasn't his idea.

"D-TE9-141519."

"TE9?" I don't see any reason not to tell him. After all, if the Decepticons catch me I'm dead anyway. Why not add providing the enemy with information to my list of crimes?

"T for trooper, meaning not higher ranks or miners. E for Eradicon. 9 for specific model."

"And why wasn't that on your wing?" I hadn't realised how little they knew.

"Seriously?" He glances back in a glare. Autobots are _not _weak. In fact, they are not cruel or pathetic or vicious. So just what are they?

"We're all identical." If you can see the brand, you can see what it's printed on. Also, E9s are the only ones with the obvious brands in the first place, because I put us under suspicion. And the overseers, but they don't count. Every drone has identity marks, but they're usually hidden. I'm not sure why they put the D in our brands. Tradition? To separate us from the overseers?

He makes an affirmative noise. "Build date." It's downright surreal how calmly we're talking.

"Don't know. Does it matter?"

He snorts in disbelief, ignoring my question. "You don't know your build date?"

"I'm not exactly counting, but it's something like three and a half years ago."

"I assume that you mean vorns, not Earth years." A think a vorn is a Cybertronian measurement of time, but I have no idea how long it is. I've never even seen Cybertron, except on monitors.

"Earth years." The tapping of squared-off fingers pauses. As he turns to look at me, the roar of an engine echoes out of what must be the main entrance in the far wall. A green groundmode, don't ask me what kind, blurs out and transforms. It's the yellow mech from before, but my tinted view alters him. His circular optics dilate as he walks towards us. He tilts his head like he's talking and emits a few beeps and whistles. I stare at him. He honestly speaks like that? I mean, I heard him before, but I thought maybe it was a battle code or something. So we couldn't listen in. It didn't occur to me that the femme talked normally, and it's not like I saw Autobots regularly. Generally whoever sees them ends up dead twenty seconds later. Again, logic and energon loss, or extreme stress for that matter, do not go together.

"You don't speak Cybertronian." The medic is using that slow, calculating voice that accompanies realisation. "You measure time in Earth terms; you shouldn't even be out of sparklinghood if your timeline is correct. You were built here. On Earth."

"Yeah… And?" By now, the majority of the drones who weren't built here are offline. It's easy to tell; none of us run completely on energon. What can only be described as a battery powers less important systems, and over time it loses efficiency. The older the drone, the slower they move. After about ten years it fails, and you die slowly in the dark, your optic band the first system to go. They could replace the thing but it's so central to our internals that recycling the parts is just easier. But why does it matter where I was built?

"Where did your spark come from?" I stare at him. _What? _Sparks come from the Well. On… Cybertron. But they must have brought them here or something.

The medic starts talking again, questions and statements tumbling out in a confusing flow, all sarcasm gone. He scans me as he speaks. "You're not a sparkless drone, or you'd be trying to fight through us right now. And you'd never have exhibited divergent behaviour in the first place. You think, which means a spark. According to this, it's there and strong." He's staring at a screen in his arm, analysing his scan. He looks up. "Unless they built you separately…" I shake my head. We're built in batches of at least fifty. "Transporting hundreds of sparks here, without a spacebridge – That's not even logical! Far too many things could have gone wrong. Detached sparks are too unpredictable, too powerful. Large numbers in one place would short out the ship itself… How in the stars is this possible?" Never thought about it like that.

But I used to know someone who did. And I don't know what it meant, but she once mentioned – "Shattersparks?"

His gaze switches back to me, his jaw hanging open. His denta are blunt, like his digits.

"Only Decepticons... How would you know that?" I'm reminded of the cuffs again as I try to sit up. I'm balanced wrong, somehow. Something feels weird.

"D-451. Medic."

"What?"

"She was a medic. She said something about us being shattersparks. I don't know what it means." The yellow one raises a hand and bleeps questioningly at us.

"Yes, about ten per cent are femmes." And they're almost always built in batches. "As for shattersparks… That practice was outlawed the moment it was discovered to be possible. It's done by charging a spark with energy and then putting it under extreme pressure." He's reluctant to explain it, but he does so anyway. "It shatters – usually into about five or six pieces. A couple of them will often snuff out immediately from shock. Surviving shards are generally weak, and don't last long without treatment. Because of the vast amount of energy each one has lost, they skip some development stages to stabilise. That would explain the timeline…" He shudders almost imperceptibly and continues with scorn. "I heard that Decepticons had found a way to further divide the shards, creating up to sixty out of a single spark. But I didn't believe that it was actually possible. Clearly I was wrong." He stares at his scan again.

The yellow one does some more chirping and beeping as I try to absorb that. So I'm a fiftieth of what I should be? A tiny sliver of life, never meant to exist? It explains a lot, but suddenly my chest feels hollow.

There were fifty four of us in my batch. Fifty four shards of the same spark. And fifty one of them are dead.

* * *

A/N Right, edited this slightly because Ratchet seemed OOC to me. Imagine it in his voice, it works better. Now, the original:

A/N Does it show that I didn't really know how to end the chapter? It was getting long (for me, anyway). The plot bunnies are eating me alive over here, there's so much I want to do. Now, who's ready for question time number two? Don't feel obligated, but it does help. I have a whole hutch of plot bunnies from the last answers.

Was Ratchet OOC? He doesn't like me either. Does it flow okay? Is D's personality becoming clearer? Which genre is this thing? Possible mild spoilers for this fic below, in the next question.

If you're dropping a review anyway then... I think I have a name for my Eradicon, but suggestions would be cool. It needs to be simple and not showy.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N I don't remember school being this time consuming... I changed the last chapter a little, Ratchet's a little less OOC now. In fact I changed it twice, because I found a height chart and some stuff needed changed. Again. Sigh. I promise that at some point I'll stop doing this. Chapters are getting longer, and I finally have the whole thing planned! The more I outlined, the more I really wanted to write. I actually know how it will end now. This freaks me out. Thanks for all the reviews, suggestions, follows, everything! Please do log in to review, responding gives me an excuse to delay homework. And I love doing it (Anons who gave me reviews, thanks! Especially for the long one). I'm now worried that I'll wreck this thing, and people might actually care. I'm going to say one thing regarding names: Not Steve. No. I'm contrary like that. Everyone calls the troopers Steve. Therefore, I won't. (Logic. I has it.)

* * *

Most of my spark is dead. I know how each shard perished; on the Nemesis your batch was the first unit that you had. I admit that they were all Decepticon through and through and would probably kill me right now if they had the chance, but… They were the only ones I ever knew, minus 451. My batch was incredibly bad at surviving. Three faded offline pretty much immediately, and from what the Autobot just said there were probably a few more that didn't even make it that far. Twenty seven died in a mining accident, simultaneously. Somebody dropped a cube too hard in the storage area. Boom, half my spark gone. Two went down in a storm, seven in internal skirmishes, twelve in battle. At the hands of the Autobots I'm currently talking to. The ones who also saved my life. Should that worry me? In my current numb state I can't really decide.

The remaining two… D-14165 and D-14173. Are they part of me, or am I part of them? Where are they? Are they even still alive?

The medic's voice cuts through the fog of questions. "No. Natural splitsparks retain a bond. Shattersparks seal off and become independent, deviating from the original sparkpulse and personality. It's a side effect of the forceful division." 65 and 73 were completely different from me. 65 blamed the Autobots for turbulence, rain and anything else that happened to go wrong. I don't think I ever heard 73 speak. It makes sense. But since when are Autobots telepathic?

It's all just a little overwhelming. I shift my weight to relieve pressure on my left wing. Suddenly, I realise why I'm balanced wrong. The berth hits my back plates where my other wing should be. It's gone.

Losing a wing is something that grounders can't relate to. The closest parallel would be tearing off all of their tyres and burning them. And then stranding the grounder on top of something very high, because most of them like heights about as much as fliers like small underground spaces.

That's the tipping point between staying silent and panicking vocally.

"My wing. What hap-"

The medic cuts me off before I can say anything stupid, allowing me to push the thoughts away. I'll deal with it later. As coping mechanisms go, mine is pretty terrible. "It was already torn off when you got here, and I have neither the tools nor the inclination to fix it. Bumblebee, go join the others." Bumblebee? Autobots have weird names. But there's still a part of me that envies them. "I need to finish the repairs." For one irrational moment, I think he means my wing. Then reality comes crushing down again. I'm less of a threat this way. When all I can do is walk, I'm simply not going to escape.

"Do you know where the-" He makes a mechanical noise that I'm guessing is more Cybertronian. "Canisters are?" Bumblebee shakes his head and bleeps before turning to leave. The medic raises a hand to his helm. The blue tint to my vision is weaker now, allowing me to see that he's actually reddish-orange and white. I also realise, belatedly and ironically, that my visor must be blue now. Oh, wonderful. I'm a prisoner and an exile, not to mention grounded, but at least my visor is blue.

"Arcee. Can you bring the canisters from the third shelf, storeroom three?" Another weird name, but it's still infinitely better than mine. He pauses, staring at the far wall. "Yes. Bring one. There should be detail welders on the next shelf down, bring one of them as well."

It takes a few minutes for Bumblebee's footsteps to fade away, and a few more for lighter, faster ones to approach. The blue femme appears in the corridor entrance, caution in every movement. She's carrying a silver tube inscribed with glyphs and what must be a detail welder. Arcee. The name fits her.

He takes the equipment and looks at it critically. I'm not sure if I want to know what it's for.

"This is not a detail welder."

"It was on the shelf, and it says 'detail welder' on the side."

"It says detail welder _prototype_. It doesn't work."

"Where does it say that? And why was it on the tool shelf?"

"If I had a shelf of things that don't work that should, it would be there. I don't, hence it goes on the tool shelf."

Arcee stares at him, confused. "Ratchet, why-?"

He gestures in frustration. "Do I have to do everything myself? Stay here, I'll go get it."

"But-"

"D-d-d-No. Make sure he doesn't rip the welds."

She considers replying, but decides there's no point and settles for glaring at him. It's amazing how well the members of this unit seem to know each other. "Fine."

After Hatchet or whatever his name is stomps down the corridor, there's a long silence. She stalks over to the far console, takes in the screen, and then returns to the one just outside the medbay alcove. I'm guessing that one shows my vital stats. I stare at the ceiling and count the panels, watching the blue tint slowly become less saturated. I'm becoming a lot more alert because of the energon I can physically feel entering my veins from a drip. I hear Arcee pace around a little more, then she stops and lets out a burst of static. I look back at her, leaning against one of the platforms with her arms crossed and a thoughtful expression.

"Why did you let us go?"

I wasn't expecting that. I guess I should have been, but there hasn't really been much time to think about it. It's a good question.

To my surprise, a dry laugh escapes me as I come up with an answer.

"I don't really know. Partially to spite my side." That's not strictly true. It was part of it, sure. But without a trigger I would have just stood there hesitating until O-93 came and checked it out himself. What pushed me was the trust in Bumblebee's optics and the desperation in Arcee's. It seemed like they were worth a lot more to each other than any Decepticon I've ever met. My old side tends to use the weak and the injured as meatshields in most cases instead of protecting them.

Her expression doesn't change as she looks down, but somehow I doubt that she believes me completely.

"So why did you save me?"

She glances up. "I don't like having debts. We're even now." She's telling the truth. I relax a little, realising just how tense I am.

"But you're not just going to let me go." She gives me a look that confirms my guess: They have no idea what to do with me. The only thing riskier than keeping a Decepticon around their base would be setting said 'con loose.

She looks at me for a moment before frustration lowers her optic ridges. "Why didn't they give you faces?"

I shrug, the movement reminding me of my wing or lack thereof. I almost wish that there was pain – this horrible sense of nothing is actually much worse.

I hear muffled thumps as Hatchet approaches. Arcee goes to meet him at the entrance. She issues a stream of beeps and clicks; yet more Cybertronian. He answers in kind. It's strange how their voices and tones are still recognisable. Arcee questions, Hatchet answers reluctantly, then adds something else in a more positive tone. She acknowledges and comments on something else, he responds. The important part of their conversation over, they switch back to English.

"I'm on patrol now, right?"

"Yes. Route four with Optimus on seven. He'll go off halfway through, make sure he sticks to the schedule. I should be done by then."

That's not worrying _at all_. Arcee transforms down into a two-wheeled groundmode and roars out, while the medic comes back towards me. He checks the monitor again.

"I need to finish the repairs, and you'll have to be offline for it." I nod. There's no point protesting. Whatever is going to happen will do so with or without my consent. Hatchet (Seriously, where did he get a name like that?) picks up the silver canister Arcee brought and considers it.

"Some minor changes may have to be made to make it possible for you to remain within the base."

"Fine." He taps the console screen a few times, and my limbs start to feel heavier. So this is what going into medical stasis feels like. Hopefully 'minor changes' doesn't mean anything too sinister. Anything is better than going back to the Decepticons, after all. I highly doubt that I'd even be granted a quick death at this point if they found me. The medic is an Autobot, and if there's one thing I've learned about them so far, it's that they're honourable. Right?

I keep telling myself that as my blue-tinted vision fades.

* * *

A/N Hatchet, hehehe. I had fun writing this. I don't think I have many questions this time, aside from the usual is-anyone-OOC and does-it-flow ones. Wait, how is one supposed to write Ratchet's d-d-d noise? I don't even know how to describe it. Were there any typos, even small ones? My grammar and spelling are getting worse, seriously.

I'm really looking forward to the next chapter, the first draft was incredibly fun to write. It's getting confusing writing at two different points in the same story, but it is necessary. This is SO much better than the pen version. And irrelevantly: TFP. New Recruit. I love it. I'm now sad that this is set before it.

Until next week. Hopefully.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N And when I said 'week' I meant 'three weeks'. Sorry. Blame the Irish language. Or me. Anyway, here's chapter six. And it is the first one to be beta read, by Tinna Minor. (Thank you!) Also, this fic is definitely set before Triangulation, Triage, those ones. Thanks to everybody who reads, follows or faves, past or present.

**Bold** is for settings. Now, get ready for - gasp - new characters.

* * *

**Nemesis**

The Eradicon looked around nervously. Dimly lit corridors met his gaze, but this particular section of the ship seemed empty. Caution satisfied, he ducked into the room. Small, dark and cramped, far too unimportant to have cameras. Other shapes shifted in the murky light, waiting for him. One Vehicon, a miner and two winged Eradicons. The Vehicon had a jagged shard of metal welded to the inside of one arm, forming a makeshift weapon and lending her a name. Blade. The names had begun before the Eradicon brands, a way of preserving some degree of anonymity. The claws of her other hand tapped her armour impatiently.

"You're late."

"I'm perfectly on time, and what's more I have information." One of the Eradicons cut off the femme's snappy response.

"What information?" He had one of those quiet voices that never demanded attention but somehow received it anyway.

"Well, important stuff, of course. You know me, always-"

"Talking too much. Yes, we know you, Cobalt." The Eradicon gave her a glare before continuing.

"They found the traitor. And I can't be sure, but I think he's gone."

"Gone?" The quiet voice contained a mixture of displeasure and hope.

"Gone. No body except the overseer's. And he wasn't killed by 'Bots, Steel."

"Idiot. The suspicion's going to skyrocket again." Blade's fists tightened. Steel gave her a look and she backed down slightly, the wheels in her shoulders slowing their silent rotation.

"Who was it?"

Cobalt would have smirked if he had been able to.

"Must be something in your batch. D-14159."

* * *

**Autobot Outpost Omega One**

I wake slowly, with an undeniable feeling of something being _wrong._ I'm horizontal. Weird. The recharging bays on the Nemesis and in the mines are generally vertical, to save space. Also, I'm not recharging; my chest is sealed and no cables retract as my visor flickers online. I run through a diagnostic quickly, ignoring the niggling feeling of not-quite-right-ness. Everything feels fine, apart from one wing… And then I register where I am, and remember. Autobots. Their bay. Cuffed to the berth.

All that is swept from my mind as my faceplate begins to melt.

Gravity stretches it backwards and it splits open. I panic, and feel more than hear the wordless noise of terror exit through the tear. I stop myself. There's a clamping sensation within the framework of my head, while the surface defies physics by sealing closed only a fraction of a second later. I can feel it twisting with a life of its own, feel the cold air moving across it. If it's melting, why is it cold?

I latch on to the orange and white medic in the corner of my vision, barely noticing that the blue tint is almost entirely gone. He stands back slightly, watching.

"Wha-mmph!" I feel my faceplate stretching with the first word and somehow manage to force it closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence. The front of my helm contorts as I try to figure out what on Earth is going on.

"Your mouth needs to be open to speak. It'll probably work better if you don't think about it."

Mouth? I have a mouth?

"Wrrgh?"

He pinches the part of his helm between his optics and gives me the patronising voice again. Only with big words.

"I affixed a sheet of Cybertronian alloy to the framework of the front lower portion of your helm, which for some reason already contained the necessary sensors and motor nodes for facial articulation."

The penultimate word grabs my attention and I finally figure it out. Shock allows me to speak.

"Face." So this is what it's like. I hadn't imagined it being so complicated. Only what must be my mouth and jaw are mobile, and now they're suddenly slack. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to pull them closed. Blunt denta click together.

I twist to try and see my reflection. The wing-like flourishes on my upper arms are just shiny enough to allow a tilted view of a mech with a bluish visor and a confused expression. Angled bars frame his – my – face, and my forehead plate remains unchanged. My mouth falls open again, exposing grey denta. I realise that my visor has changed slightly too; it seems wider and the sides are squared off instead of pointed. The narrow face below it is a paler grey than the plate it replaces, set slightly further back. My expression is constantly changing in response to itself: displeasure at the gape, amusement at being able to frown, irritation at how I can't control my own face and stop it grinning, curiousity at the gritted denta, and always ending up in a slight smile again as I realise that I have a _face_.

I'm fascinated by how it moves as I speak, trying out a single word.

"Why?" Hatchet moves to beside the berth and unlocks one set of cuffs. I roll my wrist joint and open and close my claws once I'm fairly sure it won't be seen as a threat.

"Sit up. I'd rather know now than later if your gyros are malfunctioning. Well, you obviously can't control it very well –" I feel my mouth go into an angry line as I swivel my pedes off the berth, testing stiff joints. "Which should make it harder to lie. I don't understand why they – you were built with the framework." He's not telling the whole truth, but I'm in no position to ask for it.

"Ethith-E sixes. Some had. Face. But flawed a-atta-wing. Joints." Each word makes talking easier, but my speech sounds disjointed and frustratingly simplified. The odd sensation of my face _moving_ is hard to get used to. My wing twitches uncomfortably and I feel unbalanced. Everything else feels good, though. Even my previously useless pede has regained most of the feeling.

"Try using your vehicle mode vocaliser. For now." I access it and my voice comes out clear from my chest.

"E6s had faces, but they died easily. Only a couple of batches were made before the faults were discovered. Guess they had lots of extra parts." More things 451 told me. She seemed to love information of any kind, and would share it at the slightest encouragement. In my case that meant staying silent as she chattered. I can almost hear her voice in my head.

Early in the war, my old side - old side? What am I now, then? - used a lot of trial and error in figuring out combat drones. Miners had been there from the beginning and required no tweaking. For us, they wanted to make the most of air superiority, and after many attempts E9s were eventually settled on for all future production. Groundmodes came later but used the same base; easy to build, easy to destroy. V14s were designed specifically on arrival of Earth, once it became clear that stealth was a good idea. They're like us, just effective enough to take out most Autobots when in groups, but weak enough to stay firmly at the bottom of the Decepticon food chain. Of course they told us that we'd rise through the ranks if we had enough valour blah blah blah. I'm not sure if I ever believed it, but a fair amount of the other drones did. I asked 451 once. She changed the subject pretty quickly.

"Hmph." I get the distinct feeling that he doesn't agree with using repurposed/cannibalised parts. But it's not like they were going to be used for anything better. He finally finishes whatever he was doing on the console and moves to a workbench in front of one of the platforms, one hand raised to his helm.

"Patient is stable. When will you be back?" I wonder briefly who answers the comm. My face moves again and I look around for something reflective. I'm not vain, just… curious.

"Understood."

My gaze settles on the border of one of the unused consoles. Too dull. Wonderful, I'm turning into Knockout. I glance at the screen: energon levels, charge levels, self-repair efficiency…

Wait.

I reboot my visor. And reboot it again. The screen still shows Cybertronian text and I can still read it, the meaning clear. What's even more confusing is that I know what it would sound like. My mouth forms the rough syllables experimentally; vehicle mode vocaliser forgotten. _Energon level_. It comes out as a slow, quiet series of clicks and buzzes, mechanical and electronic noises that somehow form a meaning. A language. One that I couldn't understand a few hours ago. But… How?

The medic's voice gives no indication that he heard me, sounding almost bored as he begins to take apart a large, boxy object on the workbench.

"Bumblebee requested that you be given a language patch. It should be integrated by now."

There's a silence as I look around, taking in the various monitors. The information is useless to me, but there's something deeply reassuring about being able to read it.

"Thanks, Hatchet," I eventually mutter. In English.

A squawk of indignation comes from the medic and he turns faster than something that big has a right to.

"What?!" So this is what a terrified expression feels like. Fascinating. "My name is Ratchet. Not-" The furious blue optics suddenly switch from me to something at the bottom of the corridor entrance. I catch the soft sound of muffled laughter and follow his gaze.

And freeze.

* * *

A/N Question time! Usual OOC ones, plus one other. Don't look back at the beginning of the chapter. How many separate drones spoke? Not were present, just spoke.

And I hereby promise that the next update will be quicker. Honest.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N Just over two weeks, not bad. Thanks again to Tinna Minor for beta reading.

* * *

1 week earlier

"So, what crawled up Arcee's tailpipe and died?" Miko was improving; she had waited until they were outside the confines of the base before asking.

"Well, it was close. You saw Bumblebee."

Bulkhead's sombre tone did almost nothing to dissuade her. "Aaaand?"

"And what?"

"This was different. Spill." She tapped her fingers on the dash impatiently. The huge Wrecker stayed silent around her. Miko sighed.

"I promise to… do my Maths homework?" Bulkhead rumbled in a way that was half irritated and half amused. "For a week?" That got a laugh.

"I'm not really supposed to tell you. One of the drones might have seen them, and… let them go." Miko's mouth formed an 'o' of surprise. "But it was probably mal-"

"Viva la Revolution! That's awesome!"

"It's not like that. Arcee said it was limping. Its optics were probably slagged too." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

"But imagine how cool it would be if they all suddenly turned on their masters! The war would be _won_."

"And we would have killed how many potential allies over the years?" Miko's excitement evaporated. "Believe me, they're programmed Decepticon. They can't change." She stayed silent for an unusually long time, staring out at the passing landscape. Remembering the time only a few days after they had met, when she had seen him in action for the brutal first time. He had pulled a Vehicon's internals out.

She shuddered slightly and hoped he was right. Bulkhead noticed.

"Miko?" She purposefully lightened her voice to reply.

"You can really kill a mood when you want to."

* * *

**Nemesis**

Blade angled her arm to hide her namesake as she passed a group. She wasn't afraid of being found out, but she was practical enough to realise that her pride was less important than the little circle she was meeting with.

Dimly lit corridors blended into each other until she reached the room and cautiously entered.

It was a different room this time, but it seemed the same. They only used the few that had no cameras. Steel was there, of course, along with the miner. Cobalt had named him Double with his trademark creativity. The talkative idiot had somehow ended up naming most of them. The three waited in silence until Cobalt arrived, late and unbearably upbeat as usual. Only he wasn't alone. Blade bristled as she recognised the stiff walk and immobile wheels of his companion.

"Glad you could join us." Blade reminded herself to find out when Steel had become telepathic. He had the uncanny ability of knowing when she was about to do something stupid.

The Vehicon nodded once and spoke, her voice almost devoid of emotion. "Good news and bad news. Good news: Megatron noticed the amount of damaged Eradicons walking around. Knock Out started Eradicon maintenance at 1400."

Cobalt broke in, wings twitching in amusement. "After he fixed his paint, that is."

"Also: we've got another curious. An Eradicon that keeps to the back of groups."

"Cobalt."

"I'm on it."

"Bad news?" The Vehicon broke optic contact to stare at the floor. Her visor dimmed. "Dispatch?"

"Symmetry ran dry. He was patrolling outside M34, his heating systems failed. Ice formed inside his fuel lines and eventually his spark chamber." She buried the sadness in facts, as always.

"Symmet's _gone_?" Blade's right hand curled into a fist. Cobalt would go and reaffirm it, wouldn't he.

Dispatch nodded.

They stood in silence until the miner spoke, his twin optic bands flashing with anger.

"We need to get out."

"I know." Steel's voice was even quieter than normal, with a determined edge. Dispatch looked up.

"Not yet."

Blade spun to face their resident administrator. Her shoulder wheels whirled forwards. "Not yet?! Are you waiting for it to be _safe_? It never will be!"

"Blade-"

She ignored Cobalt. "Do you even realise that we. Are. _Dying_. While you sit there on the bridge and wait for a moment that will never come?"

Steel's calm voice cut off anything else she might have added. "Blade. Let her finish."

Dispatch cycled air, and Blade realised with a kind of satisfaction that the usually emotionless femme's wheels were spinning gently backwards. But the buzz faded quickly and she leaned back against the wall, glaring at anyone who came close to making optic contact. Cobalt glared back, wings flared confidently.

"The closest opportunity is a month away. Maybe less. Depends. Anything else?"

Double's rough voice broke the tense silence. "We lost another small mine to the 'bots. Five of mine, three of yours. Looks like it was the loner."

"Why?"

"He blew up what he didn't take. Complete waste." The miner sounded disgusted.

Steel sighed. All four visors swivelled to look at him as his claws tapped against the wall, the unusual alloy coating the tips flashing in the dim light. It wasn't often that he volunteered information from his post. "The next spark is getting processed this week. The batch will be activated in three."

Claws clenched. Steel pushed off the wall. They had to leave at intervals, so that a bunch of mixed drones didn't show up at once on the cameras. Outside of these meetings the various classes almost never spoke, never mind walked around together. Excluding assignments, of course.

"Two days. You know the drill. Cobalt, with me." The Eradicons left together. The others waited a few minutes in awkward silence. Then Double left and it became downright hostile. Blade ran her claws along her weapon, testing the sharpness out of habit. Dispatch stood completely still, arms folded, facing the exit.

"It's ironic…"

Blade didn't respond to the quiet observation, except by straightening and heading for the door. They had waited long enough. 'Inactivity' would have come right above 'being decapitated' on her list of enjoyable uses of time, if she had wasted enough time to make such a list. Dispatch followed, completing her sentence.

"Just how much variation there is in one spark."

Blade didn't answer. They walked in silence and headed in opposite directions at the first junction.

* * *

**Autobot Outpost Omega One**

Miko was bored.

This was not a good thing in any sense of the two words.

She had done everything there was to do in the limited area they had been unexpectedly confined to: racked up a killstreak of thirty against Jack, been run off the road three times by Raf and decided against further humiliation, watched Bulkhead practice in the base's tiny firing range. She didn't feel like repeating any of these activities.

However, it was getting to within an hour of the time they were usually dropped home at, and she hadn't seen Ratchet's mystery patient yet. She didn't have any idea who or what he or she was and this irritated her. An irritated Miko was a motivated Miko, and so she was planning an escape.

Raf, Bumblebee and Jack were racing. Bulkhead was watching. Arcee was probably in the firing range. If the femme came back, the chance would be lost.

She slammed her Maths book closed and stuffed it into her bag before stretching luxuriously and heading for the door. Bulkhead noticed. He would have noticed if she tried to sneak out too, and this way aroused less suspicion.

"Miko." His voice carried a note of warning that she was immune to.

"I'm going for a walk. I don't need a babysitter." His optics narrowed and he stood. There were times when he knew her entirely too well. Miko didn't even attempt an innocent face, instead going for a selective version of the truth to reassure him.

"I won't go near the hangar." Not the sparring hangar, anyway. The main hangar on the other hand…

He looked at her. She stared back, arms folded. The race continued in the background.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Bulkhead…"

"You have the same expression as that time you painted tattoos on me."

"They rocked! And they wore off." She had been edging closer to the human-sized door throughout the conversation. It hadn't escaped her guardian's notice. "And have I mentioned that I won't go near the hangar?" With that, she darted out and started running. The base hadn't originally been designed with Cybertronians in mind, and even now getting around was considerably easier if you could fit through all of the doors, instead of just the oversized ones. She had maybe five minutes before Bulkhead reached the hangar.

It would take less than two minutes for her to get there. As she sprinted through the first cramped shortcut passage, she heard the distinct sound of transformation in the larger corridor. She wondered why they had been forced out of their normal place, instead of Ratchet treating the new 'bot somewhere else or even letting them watch. Maybe the patient was unstable, likely to kill everything in sight. What was the name Bulkhead had mentioned once? Sunswipe or something. A splitspark twin, like Dreadwing. And Skyquake.

She turned a corner and found herself in the corridor just off the main hangar. More mentions in war stories came to mind as she tried to quiet her steps. A femme who wasn't as uptight as Arcee could be good. There had been a sharpshooter…

She reached the corner. Ratchet was trying to fix the energon converter that had broken the day before. Moment of truth: She leaned around further, and for a moment she failed to comprehend what she was seeing. Simple, spiked, purple armour. One wing angling backwards. The pure weirdness of the context delayed the realisation that she was looking at a Decepticon.

A thousand questions and thoughts whirled through her mind, interspersed with the memories of her conversation with Bulkhead the previous week. _They're programmed Decepticon. They can't change._ So what was one doing in their base? Why was Ratchet fixing him? Maybe he had been an undercover Autobot, maybe… _One of the drones might have seen them, and… let them go._ Was this the same one, somehow? But how had he got here? Was he even a Decepticon? _Potential allies_. She stared at him, unsure and unused to the feeling.

She noticed the face below the blue-white visor. Why was the visor blue? Why did he have a face? His expressions flowed faster and freer than any other Cybertronian's that she had ever seen, moving too quickly for her to register any single one. He glanced around, but didn't notice her. What was he looking for?

"Thanks, Hatchet." The low mutter carried easily and Miko almost smiled. His voice was surprisingly normal, with one of those generic American accents that most aliens somehow acquired. He definitely sounded younger than Arcee, maybe younger than Bumblebee too, although his beeps made it hard to judge. Were they all that young? Did he somehow know Ratchet well enough to nickname him? Or he was confused? The results were going to be interesting either way, considering how touchy the Doc got over anything that wasn't his real name.

Her guess was confirmed as the medic squawked in indignation and turned amazingly quickly.

"What?! My name is Ratchet, not-" Miko clapped a hand over her mouth but couldn't stop the laugh escaping. It was half because she needed to do something to release some of her jumbled emotions. Cerulean rings of pure fury locked on to her, but she ignored him, having made a decision. The best way to get answers to questions was to ask them. Her attention was thus on the purple-armoured flier, who couldn't seem to decide whether he was curious, disgusted or scared.

For a moment there was stunned silence, then they all started talking at once.

"Miko! What part of 'off limits'-"

"Hi! So what's your name?"

"What. Is. That." A pause followed his flat question. "Humans c-come. In that colour?" Was he _stuttering?_

Ratchet ignored him, while Miko decided that since she had been seen there was really no point staying away. If he was a 'con, he was cuffed to the berth. If he wasn't, she needed to figure out why he was restrained. The medic approached her with his hands spread, as though he was trying to catch a wild animal. She ducked past him to stare up at the new 'bot. Or 'con. She was about to find out. He stared back, and his face settled on curiosity.

"Says the guy with a blue visor and a purple insignia. Are you a Decepticon or an Autobot? How did you get here? How-" She was interrupted by the approaching sound of Bulkhead's engine. Oh. Yeah.

* * *

I watch Ratchet scoop the little organic up in the moment it notices the engine echoing through the corridors. It still doesn't look at him, brown optics – eyes? – focused on me instead. I tilt my head at its questions. They're smaller than they look on screens, squishier. And loud. The compulsory briefing files did not prepare me for just how loud it is. She is. And small. She fits in Ratchet's hand. Can a sentient mind really be contained in such a tiny space?

Apparently, considering her questions. I don't even know what faction I belong to any more, so I can't answer the first one. And I was unconscious when I got here, though I assume the groundbridge on the opposite side of the hangar played a part.

Her optic ridges (or whatever the organic equivalent is) come down as she tries to figure it out. My head tilts further and she copies me. I straighten my neck, and so does she. The strange fibrous pink things attached to her head bob with the movement.

She sticks her tongue out and I recognise my reaction as disgust. The whole exchange takes less time than it takes Ratchet to walk to the entrance. He didn't notice it.

"If you had _stayed_ with the others, you would know that Arcee is explaining this right now. Go back before I have to deal with Bulkhead. Again." Bulkhead? How many Autobots are there, anyway? He sets her down at the entrance. She begins to protest, but he glares at her. "_Now._" I don't think many people would argue with that voice. Pattering footsteps retreat reluctantly towards the rumbling of an engine, almost here now, accompanied by muttering in an Earth language I don't understand. He calls after her in what sounds like the same one, and you can tell by the tone that it's along the lines of 'I heard that.'

Then he turns, one hand at his helm. "Miko is returning now. Please feel free to _keep_ her this time. Ratchet out." The engine cuts off, and voices echo instead. The one that isn't Miko doesn't sound happy as they begin to fade further, presumably walking away. Ratchet pauses for a moment before beginning another communication. "Where are you?... Understood." He's using a completely different voice, respectful instead of sarcastic. It's a little scary.

His tone is back to normal as he turns to me again. "Since you've gone thirty cycles without spontaneously losing consciousness, I'd say you're allowed _official_ visitors. Regardless of what some humans think, we have protocol."

"Visitors?" It makes me ridiculously happy to manage a three-syllable word without stumbling.

"Optimus Prime."

* * *

A/N And I do not intend to do things vaguely from Miko's point of view again for quite some time.

Questions: What on Earth am I going to call my Nemesians, apart from Nemesians? Are they getting any clearer? Does anybody hate them with a passion or anything, and if so why? Why is naming them so addicting?


	8. Chapter 8

A/N That was a long break, sorry... As always, reviews, constructive criticism, all that welcomed. Tinna Minor, thank you once again for betafying!

~Bumblebee-speak~

* * *

Ratchet makes one final comm to confirm, and then he opens the groundbridge. The swirling vortex (or what I can see of it) flashes as something comes through.

The engine is loud and powerful, fitting the huge mech that rises out of the shifting parts. He's tall enough for me to see from the medbay. And I'm still sitting down. Well. Scrap.

In general, I steered clear of the officers on the Nemesis and in the mines. The Insecticons arrived on the Nemesis before I was transferred back, and I never saw any of them. I think they stayed on the lower levels of the ship. I didn't go looking. And everyone else was exactly the same height. Well, miners might have been a little shorter, but that's all the variation I ever witnessed. About ten minutes ago I met a human, and am still confused about how small they are. And now I have to deal with the other end of the scale as heavy footsteps bring the Autobot commander closer.

I really wish I was standing up.

He's huge and more than slightly intimidating, instantly recognisable from blue and red armour. Protocols that are getting easier and easier to ignore are triggered, but there's nothing I can do about them. Even if they were in control, I highly doubt my weapons systems are online. My remaining wing snaps behind me in an unconscious 'I'm unimportant, don't kill me' gesture. I don't even want to know what my face is doing.

"D-TE9-14159, Optimus." Ratchet doesn't seem to notice the fact that I'm terrified. Or he's ignoring it. And possibly taking some kind of malicious enjoyment out of this. Why are all the medics sociopaths?

He walks across the hangar, back to whatever the machine he's fixing is. The Prime comes to a stop just outside the medbay alcove, and it takes serious effort not to attempt springing to my feet. That's how bad the height difference is. He regards me for a moment with cerulean optics.

"No harm will come to you here, unless it is provoked." Oh, so he noticed. Even managed to work a threat into the reassurance. I try to force my wing back to a neutral position as I nod jerkily. My denta are clamped together as if my face is still a fixed sheet of metal, as though that will keep my expression blank. It doesn't.

"I wish to thank you for saving the lives of my scouts."

Using my vehicle mode vocaliser doesn't even enter my mind as a possibility, so I make an unsuccessful mumbling sound before remembering to let my mouth actually open.

"Y-Welcome."

"I assume that you are not planning on returning to the Decepticons, and that your other options are… limited." My mouth falls half open before I force it closed again. I do not have a deathwish. And if by 'limited', he means 'non-existent', then yeah, he just summed up my current situation.

Please don't kick me out with one wing and too many questions. _Please._

"Therefore we are offering you the choice of staying here, provided you are willing to follow certain rules." I stare at him for a moment, then nod hesitantly. I will happily lose both wings and never fly again if it means I stay alive.

Ratchet finishes a weld and comes back over, two bands of metal in one hand. I look at them warily; they seem plain and unadorned. Somehow similar to the set of cuffs still binding me to the table, yet different.

"These are stasis bands." I wince. He continues in his professional voice. "They will activate if you go too close to the main console or any of the humans, if you try to remove them, or if you leave the base. Also, any of us can activate them." Wait. There's more than one human? "Stasis will be induced immediately, which won't wear off without medical assistance. Weapons and transformation are already locked." As he speaks, he attaches the bands. They snap around my forearms and seem to reshape themselves to fit the plates exactly. The cuffs are unfastened. "Understand?" I nod again, fairly sure that I'm smiling at least slightly. I'm going to remain alive. I have no idea how this will work out, or even what I am anymore, but I'm alive.

Both sets of optics lose focus for a moment: another comm. They exchange a glance and Ratchet shrugs. Prime turns and answers, deep voice filling the room. I stand. My left pede still isn't perfect, but it's much better than it was.

"Permission granted." He turns back to me, and Ratchet walks past him. Standing doesn't actually help with the height difference; it just brings it to attention.

"I believe it's time you met the rest of the team."

Footsteps approach. More than one set, varying in tempo and volume, all the way from heavy crashes to almost inaudible scurrying sets.

Prime faces the door while Ratchet checks his console for what seems like the hundredth time. Stun bands or no stun bands, I really wish I had another wing and an escape route. These Autobots have killed hundreds of us, and meeting all of them at once is not appealing. Granted I've already talked to Arcee and seen Bumblebee, but neither one of them is big enough to produce the heaviest set of steps.

The blue femme is the first one round the corner. The human walking beside her seems to be older than Miko. The tiny stature of the species is reinforced, especially considering how small the two-wheeler herself is. He gives me a curious glance as they walk across and come to a stop beside the central platform.

Miko precedes the next Autobot, talking excitedly. Her eyes flick between me and the green giant that follows. He's actually almost the same height as me, but about three times bulkier. This must be the wrecker that was mentioned occasionally on the Nemesis. Judging by a deeply hostile stance and a serious death glare, he wasn't responsible for the decision to partially trust me.

Bumblebee comes last, doorwings flicking nervously. An even smaller human is sitting in his hand, wearing a visor. No, glasses, I think they're called. They seem to naturally arrange themselves in a half circle around me. It's not reassuring.

"Autobots, we have reached an agreement. 14159 will remain here for the time being." He dropped the D, and I realise that I don't know whether it stood for Decepticon, drone, or something else entirely. And I don't really care.

The wrecker cuts in, his voice the one that came to meet Miko such a short time ago. "And how long is that?"

"For the foreseeable future. None of you will provoke conflict, and all have the right to self-defence." The way his gaze sweeps the room says all of us: Autobots, humans and me. "Now, I believe proper introductions are in order." A huge hand extends at just below my eye level. "I am Optimus Prime."

I clasp hands hesitantly, my rough claws grating against the smooth metal of his digits.

The greetings go round the circle from there in an almost scripted manner.

"You already know, but Arcee. And this is my partner." For a moment I almost expect Bumblebee or the wrecker to speak, but it's the human beside her.

"I'm Jack."

~Bumblebee, but you know that too.~ It takes a few seconds for the bleeps to magically decipher themselves. It's strange. I don't hear the words; they just kind of appear in my mind. A little like reading the Autobot text.

"Hi. I'm Raf." The yellow scout's human is on the ground now, his voice quieter. He's not quite hiding behind his guardian, but he wants to. Guardian? Where did that word come from?

There's a pause as the wrecker glares at me, and Bumblebee and Arcee glare at him. I try to keep optic contact. The optic band comes in useful, as he can't actually tell where I'm focused.

"Bulkhead," he eventually relents.

"Wrecker?" I don't recognise my own voice for a fraction of a second. I guess that talking without thinking is a slight improvement from not being able to speak, but at this moment I really wish for a controllable method of communication again.

"Yes. And if-"

"Easy, big guy. I'm still Miko, and that's still Docbot."

"Ratchet," he corrects almost automatically.

They all look at me with expressions ranging from curious to suspicious. My wing readjusts, increasing my silhouette. I'm glad I'm standing.

"14159. As pre- as previously mentioned."

"Seriously. That's kinda lame," Miko says as she climbs the metal stairs behind the other two. The 'bots reshuffle at some unspoken command. Prime takes a monitor, Ratchet goes back to the machine. It looks fully repaired to me, but he activates a screen and keeps going. Bumblebee and Arcee begin talking quietly as they walk out. Bulkhead moves around the central platforms. He doesn't want to leave, but he has no excuse to stay.

"Helloooo, you with the visor."

"Miko." The wrecker's voice is a warning. He's protective of the girl, he doesn't trust me not to somehow vaporise her from here. With no weapons. She shoots him a glance.

"I… didn't choose it."

"But you can change it now, right?"

I manage a vague confused noise. The idea of a unique, distinctive name is strange to me. It's one of those things that got discussed fairly often back with the Decepticons, but never as a real possibility. Like having a different paintjob, or weapons, or alt mode, or… A face. Concepts, ways to pass the time. Not something I really participated in. It's not like any of it would happen. The officers wanted subordinates, not equals. But they wanted subordinates willing to die, and nothing creates loyalty like the promise of advancement.

And here I am in an Autobot base with an expression I can't control, and I'm being told that I could change my name. Should change my name. The world is a funny little place.

"Let's see, you're can fly… Skyblast? Skyrunner? Nah, too similar to Skyquake. And right now you're grounded. Everfall? Winner's mine." The last sentence is directed towards the other two humans, who are engaged in staring at a miniscule screen. Partially. They're still listening to Miko's endless tide of suggestions.

"Raf, in other words."

"I don't always win…"

"That's right, there was a day you weren't here. This is hard. Got any other unique traits, or are we going to end up calling you Purple?"

"Uh… No?"

She raises her optic ridges. Eyebrows. Whatever. "Dee. Damien."

"What?"

"Earth names. I don't care if you're from here or not. Stephan. Damon. Saikko. Sebastian!" It suddenly occurs to me that I'm probably younger than them. Technically. I'm glad they don't know that.

"Do I look human to you?" And my vocaliser is acting on its own again. Great.

"Nooo… Where'd your number come from?"

I pause. "My batch. 14143 through 14196."

"One number per 'con? Did any of them have names?"

"No." It comes out sharper than intended. "Most of them are gone." Because 'dead' is not a word to be said out loud.

I'm pretty sure the implications sink in, but she disregards them and continues. I'm almost glad of the distraction. "Well aren't you just a bundle of joy? We should call you Dirge…"

"Miko." This time the warning is from Jack. It takes a weird crackling noise from the screen to drag his eyes back to it.

"Got any better ideas?" The crackling noise repeats, louder. The screen whites out and Jack hands a black plastic object to Miko. It must be a controller. So the screen is displaying a game. They swap seats and the older boy leans against the railing, dividing his attention between me and his friends.

"Don't you think you should name yourself?"

I shrug and look around. My pede is beginning to hurt from staying still, so I take a few steps towards the main corridor. My knowledge of my surroundings includes far too many blank spaces.

"I'm not creative."

"Me either." He notices the slight limp that I can't quite hide, but doesn't comment.

The smallest and quietest human looks around from the game. He's either good at multitasking or he doesn't care about the outcome.

"Dissever. It means to cut apart or separate." I stare at him. Is that in reference to leaving the Decepticons, or my spark? Shard of a spark?

"Too long." It wouldn't fit me.

The screen whites out again.

"But - you weren't even watching!" Miko glares at Raf. He smiles apologetically, and Jack laughs.

The scouts re-enter the hangar and Bulkhead chooses this moment to return. "Miko and Raf, with me."

The girl sighs dramatically and checks her empty wrist. "But we just got out of quarantine…"

"Ratch wants us out, and it's Thursday. School tomorrow." The medic grunts a vague assent before Miko can question him.

"Bee?" Raf queries as he steps on to Bulkhead's hand.

~I'm not allowed near your street for another week after the drifting. Sorry.~ I didn't know that beeps could sound apologetic.

"No problem."

Bulkhead waits for both of them to balance on his hands before setting them down and transforming into a sturdy looking groundmode. They call goodbyes and clamber in. The groundbridge opens and Bulkhead roars through.

Jack descends the stairs normally, Arcee meeting him at the bottom. She tosses me a cube of energon that I only just manage to catch. I turn it in my claws, wondering what exactly I'm supposed to do with it. I can see her becoming confused in my peripheral vision.

"Seriously?" I hear the smile in her voice as she turns away. "Someone teach Visor how to eat."

My head snaps up in an unspoken question, but she's already transforming, parts whirling and shifting and somehow shrinking into her two-wheeled alt mode. Ratchet readjusts the groundbridge console. The whoosh changes pitch slightly, and they're gone too.

Visor?

* * *

A/N So. I think I got most of the name suggestions in. There should be at least a couple from the people who gave multiple suggestions. If I missed one or seemed dismissive of them in this chapter, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to. There were really good names in there, but none of them quite fitted.

Also. He is not Jazz. Jazz is too cool, and his personality reaaaally wouldn't fit.

Questions! I can't think of any. Feel free to ask yours.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N *Slinks in* Yeah, uh... Life's been busy. I love everybody who's still here. The Hobbit wrecked my ability to write robots, and my headspace is cluttered up with dwarves that refuse to move. Sorry for the long wait. Tinna Minor is awesome for betafying - Seriously, this chapter improved so much because of it. Also, she's writing this fic called Forgotten and I'm asking you nicely to check it out.

That last chapter pushed me up over 100 reviews, which is awesome and amazing and I less than three everybody. I never thought this would get much attention. Thanks to everybody who reviewed, faved, followed or read! You're all legends.

Also, you may have picked up that for a while I was winging this story. As in, it was supposed to be a oneshot. So chapter 1 has now been adjusted a little to fit better. Nothing major, just details that were only imagined after it was written.

* * *

Dispatch let her gaze settle on the huge screen, taking in every detail that scrolled across it. She didn't want to think. Thinking would lead her back to Symmetry and his pointless death.

She liked her job; it let her use her skills and intelligence and it was probably the reason the group of not-quite rebels were mostly still alive. Put simply, she was in control of timetables. To go into a little more detail, she was the one who shuffled the available resources – energon, recharge berths, Vehicons – into the places they needed to be, making best use of the properties and skills available, balancing an entire army using nothing but a console. Well, there were supposedly two others assisting her, but they didn't really do much. She hadn't seen them in a week.

Along the way, she just so happened to put the dissenters out of harm's way, in some cases into units. She set up the chains that would carry messages. She tracked the movements of the officers, she noted the troopers who lagged behind on missions, the miners who preferred to work alone. She put Cobalt or one of the others like him nearby, and let them suss out if odd behaviour was due to laziness or the same unease that had caused them to band together like this, to plan for –

She cut off the half-thought before it could solidify, waiting for the protocols to kick in. It had taken a long time to figure out which thoughts triggered them. Nothing happened, and the Vehicon relaxed and kept working. She didn't quite understand how the others coped with the pre-activation programming. They weren't stupid, but she didn't bother denying that she had much more intelligence and needed all of it to work her way around what was effectively an aggressive, extremely Decepticon subconscious. Right now, for instance, she was avoiding it by splitting her thoughts and letting the 'safe' stream take precedence. She wasn't being arrogant by doubting that Blade could achieve the same thing.

The mine taken that morning had been small, containing only one hundred and twenty cubes refined, with the capacity to produce perhaps another two hundred. Not a huge loss, but she adjusted the allowance for the nearest three mines and arranged a small survey team to check for survivors or any leftover energon. Neither would show up. The Wrecker known as Wheeljack was thorough.

That done, she looked over the miners. There were only eleven of them who sided with Double, and she needed to keep them together. Unlike the troopers, they couldn't be assigned to the Nemesis. Even Double was only here short-term, having come with the last shipment from his mine. Arranging that had been risky. Dispatch weighed the odds carefully and swapped a drill operator to the larger unit. She could justify the choice if asked – a skilled driver was needed where he was going, there was another fully trained one waiting to take his place. That left only two isolated. They could be transferred in a week or so when the mine they were both stationed at ran dry. She glanced at their profiles, not needing to: both were reasonably old. She wasn't sure exactly what Soundwave had done, but most of those who wanted –

_She needed to go and report this right away, escape was treason, treason was pain, pain was death._

She felt the wave of purpose coming and stilled it with effort. She held the thoughts, examining them for logic. There was some, of course. But not nearly enough to actually convince her.

It scared her to consider what would happen if she gave in, if the programming managed to gain control. It would send her straight to the nearest officer, and she would tell them everything in a calm and relaxed voice. And then they would all be executed, probably by fellow drones under the control of what they were fighting against.

She dodged another impulse, made almost her own. The coding was smart, admittedly, but she was smarter.

She was getting better at anticipating and avoiding it, at knowing the difference between what came from her own mind and what didn't. It had taken months of ruthlessly reasoning out every decision she made, checking and rechecking the paths of logic.

Dispatch realized she had paused in her work. Quickly, she finished with the miners and pulled up the medical resources. A twinge of unease pulled at her. There were fewer requests for repair items, and more for fresh sparks. Less medics. She unconsciously stopped her shoulder wheels before they started reversing.

They spun forward again in slight and perhaps malicious amusement at the demands from the Nemesis's own medbay. Knockout had decided to restock, it appeared. With lots of Eradicon parts. Megatron had clearly gotten his message across.

She arranged for the supplies to be delivered from the hold. It made a nice change from the buffing tools and wax. As she waited for responses to the orders, her mind drifted again.

She wished 451 hadn't been caught in the cave in. The femme had been a decent medic. More than that, she had started all this. She had talked to Steel, listened to Cobalt, welded Blade's arm back together properly without trying to replace it. She would have done something so that Symmetry could have lasted the last few weeks, or _something_.

Too many of them were dying. The administrator's claws stiffened on the console. She knew she couldn't protect them, knew that Steel was in charge and had made them miss their last opportunity. She knew that she agreed with him; they had to find as many dissenters as possible. That didn't help. _Logic_ didn't help. And Dispatch didn't know how to combat feelings that couldn't be reasoned away.

That had been the thing about 451; she had stabilised the group in a way the administrator sorely missed. She was… approachable. She seemed to emanate calm and content, while being rock-solid and keeping them together. No one else had stepped into the gap she had left, and no one would. No one could. The femme knew that she herself had roughly the charisma of the console she was working on. Double spent most of his time in the mines, and he didn't seem to understand worry. Cobalt was irresponsible. Blade was, well, _Blade_. Steel had something of the same aura of calm about him, but he just wasn't as friendly. Every time she saw him he was quieter than before, and she knew he didn't do much but work and recharge. He didn't know what else to do.

She had to think about something else.

The console pinged as the two Eradicons acknowledged the orders. These two were part of a surprising amount of them that weren't equipped with commlinks, having only the bare necessities. They could receive data packets, transmit location, and raise an alarm. The limitations didn't make much sense. Proper comms were ridiculously easy to set up, and they were stuck with tech worse than the natives of Earth. Only the batches built after Megatron's return had decent equipment.

That was one of the many small but illogical details to the Decepticon army that had eventually brought her here. They just didn't make sense. Until she had finally, _finally_ managed to get her mind to accept the possibility of rebellion. (Another impulse was absentmindedly overridden.) Only the consoles could send the data packets. Apart from that, the drones had nothing that could help them coordinate any sort of resistance.

Well. Except themselves.

Dispatch pulled up the supplies of recharge berths.

* * *

Cobalt wandered through the corridors of the Nemesis. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. 'An Eradicon who keeps to the back of groups,' Dispatch had said. Great. That was a veritable goldmine of information. He was good, and he knew he was good, but he couldn't pick out one among hundreds from a single, non-specific sentence.

That didn't stop him narrowing it down.

Well, if they kept to the back of groups, then they obviously had to be part of said groups. Just about. Eradicons tended to stay in groups more than Vehicons, so that complicated matters slightly. At least his target was on the Nemesis; if they had been elsewhere Cobalt wouldn't have been the one looking.

Social groups tended to mostly consist of members of the same unit, and units were formed of batches. The four batches activated since Megatron had returned were unlikely, since none of them had ever shown any interest in anything but fighting Autobot scum. Quote.

Which freaked him out.

Lost in thought, Cobalt joined a huddle of Eradicons. A lone drone wandering the corridors attracted attention. He didn't need the cameras focusing on him. Or any stray Insecticons playing catch with him. The time-honoured practice of 'safety in numbers' had recently begun to apply in more and more life situations.

The group accepted him with a few sentences of greeting; he knew a couple of them. A datapad somewhere in the middle of the bunch released muffled human music, marking them as a Before group. The population had never been labelled like that verbally, but Cobalt had a habit of naming things in his mind. Like other drones.

Of course, the names weren't always appreciated. One of the bars that framed Symmet's face had been snapped off, which made Cobalt dub him Asymmetry. He had decided that was too long, so he dropped off whatever syllables he felt like. Cobalt had tried to explain why this didn't make sense, but the cranky old guard wasn't easy to argue with.

His amusement wilted as he remembered that Symmet was gone, and he wished for a distraction.

It was provided almost immediately: the music was abruptly shut off as they turned a corner and came face to face with a group of Vehicons. Their confused glances at the last bar of music and the way they stood equally spaced apart identified them as Afters.

Cobalt's group fell into an uncomfortable silence, but kept walking. The Afters made every one of the Befores shift nervously inside.

A rough voice came from one of the Afters as he stepped out, cocky stance showing that the unease was not reciprocated. They stopped.

"So, what was the noise?" It was a blunt kind of curiosity. The Afters weren't like the rats who would report you for flicking your wings at an overseer. They were worse.

"Music. Human stuff. We're trying to figure out why they listen to some of it willingly." The Eradicon who spoke gave a small laugh to finish, wings up in a false pretence that everything was fine. Cobalt wondered how he missed the tension for so long, how he had joined in the act without ever understanding what made them do it.

The After lost interest at the first word, as they always did when anything entertainment-related was mentioned.

The Before Eradicon decided to finish the conversation and move on. "You guys look like you're in a hurry-"

"Evening patrol. Let's hope we find some Autobots to scrap, huh?" The other Afters gave enthusiastic half-shouts and nods of agreement.

"Yeah. Leave some for us if you do, groundpounders." The groups set off again in opposite directions. The Befores didn't talk about the Afters. They never had and never would. Cobalt remembered a time when he had been like that, just after the first batch of Afters had been activated. He hadn't consciously noticed or questioned the difference, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

Befores had their own little society of alt-mode racing on the longer, quieter corridors or on patrols and attempting to learn human culture any time a console was left unattended. They swapped shifts and berths, to Dispatch's irritation. Afters were awkward on the rare occasions they joined in, unable to really see the attraction. They reserved every last scrap of their passion for killing Autobots and serving Megatron.

A data packet crackled into life within his mind and he shook his head to clear it of the strange sensation of filling up and paused, letting the group leave him behind as they realised he was receiving something. Probably orders.

Or not. It was a text file, from a console. The number identified as one of the groundbridge operation ones. He knew because he was stationed at one.

_/You know you're supposed to be on duty right now, right? No? Oh, well then. What's that? Yes, this is against the rules. No, I do not care. Why should you come? I'm bored. I refuse to suffer alone. Also, there's an overseer coming. Where? Well, he's two corridors away. You're three. Yes, really. No, I'm not stalking you. You're pretty distinctive when you're thinking. You think too much._

_Walk fast, now./_

Cobalt slumped as the information settled into his head. Bridge duty. Right. He had forgotten about that.

Something clattered behind him. The Before group were well in front of him now, so it wasn't one of them.

He twisted. An empty corridor met his visor. He stared for a moment, and another text file from the same console began to download.

/_And you're paranoid. What are you staring at? Nothing? Who would have guessed? If you don't get here within about twenty seconds I'm recommending that they fire you./_

He sighed and complied.

* * *

Steel's vented deeply in an attempt to relieve the pressure inside him as he stared at the spark, optical band adjusted down in the too-bright lab. It crackled at him, hissed, and he tried not to wonder whether that was a reflection of the personality within. Maybe it would turn out like Blade, all defensive and determined. Or like his one remaining brother. It was possible that 159 was still alive, a lone renegade, but highly unlikely, so all that was left of the spark that he had come from was an overseer Cobalt called Lash. With good reason. Or maybe it would pass this stage of hating the world and slip into half-content silence, watching and waiting but ready to fight. Like Symmetry.

The familiar feeling of an expanding bubble around his spark decreased as the spark calmed. It was contained with two others in one of the medium sized vats. Smaller cube-shaped containers lined the wall to either side, raised to be at a comfortable working height. The speculation wasn't helping. He would never know, anyway.

Implant the ball of sentience in a frame, and it would settle. It would learn. It would have the shadow of memories, of _living_, to hold it together. Try to shatter it after that and you would get a very bright flash and then nothing. Not even a sputtering remnant of insanity would linger in the world that had betrayed it, that had shown it life and then taken it away.

One of the others cursed behind him – the soft mutter of watching a shard dim slightly, not the bark of one imploding. The pressure inside him increased slightly again and he would have winced had he been able to. His wings, usually still, twitched.

He hesitated to call his colleagues spark techs. That implied that they knew what they were doing. That they were experts. In truth, they were told the basics and figured some of the rest out as they went. They didn't know why the sparks let out white pulses instead of blue when they were strong enough to shatter, or how five shards could come from one and each be half the size of the original. Most of them didn't care.

The tank in front of him flashed, the bubble sharpened inside him, and he hurriedly focused on the lives in his charge. There was no cause for immediate panic. Three shards remained in the raised vat of glowing blue gel. Two had drifted towards each other and bounced away, causing the flash. Once they had parted from each other they seemed to hate closeness. Maybe it reminded them that they had once been whole, and that they were now less. _Maybe I overthink things_, he thought darkly.

He pulled the control pad down from the apparatus perched on a rail above the tank. It sent a claw into the gel at his command. The claw closed around the shard at the back, charged, and shot dancing lines of white lightning into the bright sphere. He lifted it gently and deposited it into the next waiting tank. The gel evaporated into a dense mist as the burning consciousness broke the surface each time. It was the same substance that filled his charge pack. Probably some variant of energon, but thicker and rarer. No one wasted their precious time to tell the spark techs. They only worked with the stuff and effectively created the sparks that kept the big, inefficient meat grinder that was the Decepticon army going.

Steel wondered why he was so uncharacteristically sarcastic today. Cobalt must have been wearing off on him.

The gel didn't burn or explode but it could hold energy like Blade held a grudge. In drones it powered secondary systems; just enough to kill them when it ultimately failed. That was what had killed Symmetry. No heating systems, stuck in a climate where they were necessary – Symmetry had known it was coming.

The thick mist seemed to dissipate where it was, but he felt the brush of burning chemicals against his claws. When a spark was suspended in the stuff and fed a constant charge, it stabilised and grew. When it was shattered, the gel stopped the reaction blowing up half the ship. Or so they said.

And when exposed to the armour of their frames, it caused some sort of reaction that turned the plates a strange rippled silver colour. The senior spark techs were marked out by their steel-like hands, usually acquired over half a decade by exposure to the mist. That hadn't happened to Steel's digits. In fact, the brighter alloy stopped just short of his wrists in a line, while the normal method would fade out around the middle of the palm.

He closed the smaller vat and pushed it along the rail it was suspended from. Only the single-spark vats were mobile. As he picked up another to hang it on the rail, ready for the next helpless sacrifice, some small mishap on the other side of the room stabbed at his core, sharper and colder than before. It felt like fear, anger, but… muted. The feelings didn't belong to him and used no words, no images to convey themselves. In the next moment, the pain exploded into the sensation of being torn apart. He half expected the window in his chest to shatter. _Not good. Not good at all._

The small tank dropped from suddenly numb claws, clattering on the metal floor. Steel's vision flickered and the disjointed frames showed the floor coming closer as he fell.

* * *

A/N I've missed this: Question time! So, are they getting clearer? Is anything confusing? Apart from Steel's bit, that's sort of supposed to be.

Also, I apologise profusely, but the next chapter might not be the quickest update ever, either. Sorry. Someday I'll have a semi-regular update schedule.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N I'M SORRY. A warning in advance: This is a filler chapter. After all that time, a filler chapter. Sorry. Tinna Minor beta'd and she's awesome and you should go read Forgotten right now.

* * *

The base is quiet. Prime left for a while, and Bumblebee disappeared after giving up on explaining eating to me. It's completely counter-intuitive – all my life I've been unconscious while refuelling. The recharge pods injected it; there was none of this chewing and swallowing to figure out. It doesn't help that I'm still getting used to the very idea of solid energon as sustenance. Bumblebee was at least patient, until I asked how he ate the stuff. I'm sensitive like that. Then he got frustrated and gave up. It turns out he has a narrow slit of a mouth, but mainly consumes liquid. The thing that Ratchet's fixing is apparently the converter.

His buzzing filled the silence that now pervades the base. Prime comes back and resumes whatever he was doing. I don't know what it is, only that the symbols scrolling down his monitor are very, very old. He isn't a good conversationalist and neither is the medic. Sometimes a few words flicker between them, but I get the idea that they're old friends and the silence is companionable rather than awkward. The work they're doing doesn't seem to encourage much exchange, either. If it wasn't for Ratchet's glances every fifteen minutes or so I would think they've forgotten about my existence.

My mind chases itself in circles for a few minutes, and if every movement didn't seem disproportionately loud then I would probably be pacing. I don't want to think, don't want to break down the last remnants of everything I've ever known by acknowledging the smoking ruins. I need to distract myself.

My visor – Speaking of which, why did Arcee call me that? – scans everything I can see and comes back to rest on a stack of what look like datapads. I have no idea what to do, and it's suddenly coming home. Until a very short time ago, my life consisted of a strict routine with minimal deviation. I volunteered for flight patrols when I could, I didn't really talk to anyone after most of my batch were blown into tiny scorched pieces. I didn't stand out. I didn't have free time to spend. Now, it's all I have. I don't know whether I should be talking or exploring the base or recharging.

I focus on the datapads. They're different to the ones on the Nemesis, blockier. As I wonder exactly what's on them, Optimus glances at Ratchet and receives a huff of expelled air in return. The medic's voice is irritated.

"I'm finishing." It's another few minutes before he leaves, giving me a cursory glance to make sure I'm still alive and vaguely upright before disappearing into one of the corridors. I was beginning to wonder if he was somehow tied to this room, but apparently he isn't.

I stare at the datapads from where I'm perched on the edge of the medbay berth. What do Autobots read in their spare time? They presumably don't have the same detached obsession with human culture that some drones have. They _know_ humans. They talk to them every day. And they have access to full size consoles if they do want to research things. Maybe the pads contain stories? The ship's database had one – no, two, (Literally, I'm not exaggerating) but they consisted of a violently described Autobot death at the hands of a great commander and a footsoldier dying pointlessly to advance the great Decepticon cause. Actually, he didn't just die, he was going to survive and then he showed mercy to the Autobot he had barely managed to defeat. Who promptly shot him in the back as he flew off to claim his new and wonderful life as an officer. Which really says a lot about my old faction. You kill and become great, or you show mercy and die. I'm morbidly curious as to the Autobot equivalent. I stand as quietly as possible and step forward, ignoring my limp. Pointed claws reach for the first datapad.

"They are records."

"H-What?" The calm voice causes instant panic, and the blue optics are almost amused as the Prime looks at me. I freeze with my claws hovering above the stack, then jerk back to stand stiff.

"They contain some of Cybertron's history. That one is about Vos, a city of fliers." My face tightens in confusion. He stops typing and turns the rest of his huge body to follow his steady gaze. His movements are completely, scarily silent. "I see no problem in you learning some of the past of our race, Visor." Again with the name. Where did it even come from? Is this how they're normally given? I somehow assumed there was choice involved.

"Why… Why did Arcee call me that?"

He smiles slightly. "I do not know. Do you dislike it?"

"No. I just-" I cut myself off. There's a short silence, and when I look up Prime has turned back to his ancient text. The smile is still in his voice.

"Vos was said to be a beautiful city." His tone turns wistful. "I wish I could have seen it before the war stole the life from our planet." Cybertron. It finally sinks in that we're talking about a place that is now dead, yet still dictates so much about us. Somehow, I'm a Cybertronian without ever having been there, or even seen it. Without speaking the language properly or having a real name or even a full spark.

I pick up the datapad and sit on the berth again. My awkward claws are unused to technology, but I manage to get it to flicker to life. I get the feeling that it's old, that it's been dragged around from place to place with these Autobots for longer than I've been alive. Tiny scratches mar the screen. I worry about adding to them with my rough digits, but I'm curious now. If I start to damage it I'll stop. I open the first file hesitantly, relieved that I can understand the symbols, if not quite recognise them.

_Vos has been called the City of Mist, and although it is in fact mostly substantial and solid this description holds a certain truth. The swaying towers seem to float above the ground, guiding currents of air in complex, twisting routes that only seekers have a hope of navigating. Seen from above, the roads form geometrical patterns and murals on a scale few artists have dreamed of. Onlookers reason that no metal could create what they see, that no living being could dance through the sky the way the citizens do on an everyday basis. It comes as a surprise to many to learn how this city started, as a tiny, struggling settlement run by outcasts and outlaws… _

It's a description by a Neutral native completely unlike anything I've ever read. Only 'description' is the wrong word. It's more like a… biography. Vos was a living, breathing being. It fought, it grew, it built, it fought some more, it developed from nothing to riches to nothing again and though it was far from perfect, I wish I could see it. Fly through it. I know that now it's probably little more than dust and rubble, but I can't stop myself getting attached to it. As the night wears on, I am lost in a world before war, before the population was scattered to the winds and cities became a forgotten dream, where landing was seen as an inconvenient necessity, towers moved in the wind and a planet I have never seen was at peace.

* * *

The wall is cracked. No, torn.

The marks look new, jagged and sharp-edged with gleaming metal, like they've been clawed out from inside the hollow wall. When I stare into them there's nothing but deep, inky darkness and utter silence. That's a lie; there's something there but it's... It's not something I can see. The crooked lines seem to be growing at the edges of my vision, but when I turn sharply to look they freeze. Optical illusion, nothing more.

The movement makes me more aware of myself and I realise that I've been standing here staring at the wall for quite some time. Embarrassed by the very possibility that someone could be watching, I twist and start to walk, wings held stiff. My steps echo down the long corridor, mocking my assumption that I'm not alone. The Nemesis is completely, utterly empty, but for the whispers of voices. Even the engines are silent, and the lack of the constant throbbing hum should be disconcerting. It isn't.

Something about this is wrong but I can't quite figure out what.

The wall is still damaged, still in exactly the same way. Like a repeating pattern, but I don't think it's repeating. The smaller web of crisscrossing cracks covers every surface, but only the flat panels have larger gashes. One or two have been sliced right across and I shy away from them, inexplicably wary of what's on the other side. The wounds… I want to say they aren't right, but I can't. They aren't normal.

Click. Click. Click.

My even steps punctuate the ever-present whispers, interrupting them. They don't mind, though.

Stop. Think. Who doesn't mind? The ship is empty; who whispers?

"Hello?" The voice is mine. I realise somewhere in my mind that it's nice to be able to speak clearly again, without an uncontrollable faceplate marring my words. However, I'm immediately distracted as the whispers stop. Laugh. And keep going. I get annoyed and somehow they know it and laugh at me again.

Before I can think what to say, something flashes in the corner of my vision, down one of the corridors that branch off from this one. My visor snaps to face it but there's nothing there. I hesitate for barely a second before starting to run, the movement less awkward than it should be. This corridor is exactly the same and when I reach the next junction, where the movement was, I find that nothing has changed. The walls are still torn, impossible floating patches of metal supported by empty air. For some reason, this makes me angry. And claustrophobic.

I don't know where I am, but the general rule of navigation on the Nemesis is to keep going in one direction until you see something you recognise. There's a ban on alt modes in the corridors so I jog along, getting steadily more disturbed as the walls' injuries keep appearing and the whispers intensify.

Another flicker of movement at the next junction and I ignore it. The suggestions of voices are angry now, but so am I. I don't know why but everything about the ship is suddenly loathsome and I need to get out. Need to.

I should have reached something familiar by now but there's nothing except dark-webbed corridors and four-way junctions, and a growing number of flickers that I continue to disregard. The feeling of going somewhere briefly calms me but it's a lethargic, dead calm that somehow sparks more anger.

I kick off the ground with grace that doesn't belong to me and transform, ignoring the scrapes against the walls as the narrow space reminds me why this isn't allowed.

I gun my thrusters and shoot down the corridor at a reckless speed, pulling tight corners every other junction. Left. Right. Left. Right. Every now and then a dead end opens up but I'm always able to change direction, and that seems a lesser evil than slowing down. I'm cutting diagonal paths through the maze, hoping that it will get me to the true edge and somehow doubting that it will.

Another dead end looms out of the darkness and I try to pull to the right, only just noticing that there's no corridor there. The transformation is hurried and still incomplete when I slam into the rough-textured wall. There's no pain, just fading shock and surprise. My feet are thankfully the right shape when I impact the floor, somehow staying upright in a way that I never actually could.

I stare at the scarred wall and it doesn't react. The tear marks grow slowly in the corners of my vision. The whispers laugh at me; trapped and unable to do one thing about it.

My claws are ripping into the wall before I know what I'm doing.

* * *

I wake with the same feeling of surprise as before; my chest is sealed and I'm not refuelling, and the space around me is much bigger than a corridor but somehow more claustrophobic. Maybe it's because it doesn't move.

I raise my head and wince as internals creak. It appears that I somehow managed to fall into recharge while still reading the datapad, which makes sense as the last thing I can remember is the beginning of the Second Golden Age. There was a lot more to go.

To my surprise I'm not alone in the main hangar. Bumblebee is doing something that involves reaching over the platform the humans stay on with a fistful of wires. Irritated muttering that can only be Ratchet comes from the direction of the groundbridge. I try to access my chronometer but it's offline, along with my flight and navigation instruments. Right.

I leave the datapad on the berth and stand up, listening to the multiple creaks and pops that grind out of stiff joints. Note to self: Find a better way to recharge. Even such stupid thoughts trigger a slight smile. Planning for the future. What an odd feeling.

"Morning, Visor." Arcee comes from the other end of the hangar, carrying a box of what look like parts. I reboot my optic band a couple of times to restore the colour balance as I try to wake up fully. On that subject…

"Why are you c-calling me that?" It appears my voice is still in unpredictable mode. Great. "Sorry. Morning. Wh-what time is it?"

"It's… eleven fifty three a.m., local time. And I thought Miko called you Visor first. Unless you have a better idea I suggest you don't tell her you don't like it, or you'll end up being called Mighty Starpuncher or something…" Her voice trails off as she walks backwards to the corner of the platforms before turning to carry the parts the rest of the way to Ratchet. She doesn't really give me time to say that I actually do like it, I'm just confused.

Something crackles on the humans' platform and Bumblebee jerks back, letting out a panicked buzz. I don't understand it for a moment, then I realise that it's just a noise, no words. He laughs slightly and drops the wires.

~Ratchet?~

"If it's broken, you can explain that to them. I'm busy." The scout looks from the groundbridge to the wires to the groundbridge. His doorwings droop. I accidentally give a half-laugh and stop abruptly as he turns to glare. I try not to panic but that's rather difficult as my mind conjures up images of the bodies they occasionally brought back to the Nemesis. A pair of smaller blasts (usually quite well-placed) meant the yellow scout.

The glare changes to concern and he waves his four-digited hands in what's probably supposed to be a reassuring gesture. ~Don't look so scared! I wasn't serious.~ His round optics whirr as they catch sight of the datapad on the berth and his next buzzes and clicks don't even sound like a hasty subject change. He's genuinely curious. ~You're reading about Vos?~

I nod warily, not trusting my voice at this particular moment. He makes a considering bleep.

~I never get further than the introduction before downloading datapads… It doesn't sink in as much but it's a lot faster. Except the one about-~ He doesn't break off but perhaps because I don't know the wistfully spoken word it takes longer to translate: ~Praxus. I read that.~

"Praxus?" His optics widen a little as he remembers how little I know.

~I used to live there. For a while. I wasn't really around for long before… Before everything happened.~

I stare at him for a second. He acts younger than me, so I forgot that he is in fact so much older. I wonder what it would be like to lose your home to war, to have something to miss.

~Have you had energon yet?~

I shake my head. "But I'm fine." I haven't done much since the strange experience last night of actually eating, so my systems are still fuelled (Thankfully the scout seems to have forgiven me for whatever I said). Oddly, my charge pack seems to be full as well though I have no idea why. Bumblebee shrugs and bundles his wires around one hand before moving away with a friendly wave, presumably to work on them.

I flick my solitary stiff wing and take a few steps out into the hangar, scooping up the datapad on the way past. As I set it down on top of the pile I overbalance for some reason and almost fall, but catch myself in time. Odd. I'm not the most graceful being in existence but I can usually stay on my feet without too much trouble.

As I turn to face the suddenly tiny hangar I fight down the desire to fly and instead wonder exactly what I'm going to do for the day.

I don't get the chance to finish the thought, as the main console chooses this moment to start bleeping. And when I say 'bleeping' I mean 'screaming'. Loudly.

When you've spent most of your life under the impression that anything unexpected and loud generally directly precedes death, and then you're exposed to an awful lot of unexpectedness in a very short time, and then you're suddenly faced with an alarm that sounds important and possibly fatal, your first reaction is probably to run away while trying to drown it out with screams. If, however, you're me, you'll freeze. Solid.

Ratchet curses and shuts off the alarm and then suddenly straightens, throwing a glance over his shoulder to confirm my continued existence. He switches to a different Cybertronian dialect, probably his native one, but I can guess the meaning without knowing the words.

"Arcee!"

"On it!" The femme is already half sprinting across the hangar. "Visor, follow me. Visor!"

I snap out of stillness but still don't quite comprehend what's happening. Are they under attack? Have I been tracked somehow? "Why-"

"Just COME!" She's already at the corner to the corridor.

"But-" I get the distinct feeling that if our size difference was reversed she would be literally dragging me out of sight. As it is, she's suddenly behind me and jabbing the point between my main wings, where a lot of sensors congregate. They flare and I stumble forwards, hissing more with shock than pain. I run the rest of the distance myself, turning the corner into the too-small tunnel a few seconds before something hisses in the main hangar. A door?

"PRIME!" A male voice, human, not one I've heard before. Not one they want me to meet. What's going on?

One of my secondary wings is suddenly pushed and I flick them in irritation, rapping Arcee's hand by accident. I've already started walking when I realise that that's what the impact was and twist, panicked, trying to apologise. A blue death glare meets my visor and I falter. The femme raises a finger to her lips and hisses. My expression twists in confusion. She rolls her eyes.

"_Be. Quiet._" The whisper barely makes it over – the what? _Bickering?_ - the bickering in the hangar. But why on earth is Ratchet bickering with the new voice? No. Not my business. She points on down the corridor. I raise my three-clawed hands in an apologetic gesture of surrender and turn back, and promptly overbalance for no apparent reason.

My digits clang as they catch a panel that sticks out on the wall, but then they slip off and one spiked knee doubles the sound as I half-fall. Arcee curses. The silence that follows is deafening.

* * *

A/N Again, I'm really really really really REALLY sorry. Life's been busy and I'm very, very good at procrastinating. I give internet cookies to anyone who's still here. You're awesome. The good news is that I'll have lots more time very soon, so hopefully you won't have to deal with minor cliffhangers for long.

(Sorry.)


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